Aftermath
by euclidimogen
Summary: Sirius is dead, Harry is pissed, and Dumbledore and his Order scramble to survive the aftermath of a Boy-Who-Lived-To-Go-Rogue! independent!Harry and Gray!Harry, possibility of becoming super!Harry. Rating may go up to M, as well, in future.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter; that right and privilege belongs to JK Rowling, her publisher(s) and whatever corporations who have bought rights to it since it was published. None of the protagonists (and many of the supporting characters, as well) are mine, either. The plot, as much as it can be (I deviate from what happened after The Department of Ministries, pretty much any of what happened in canon, after Sirius fell through the veil), is mine.**

**Author's Note #1: This began as a one-shot. It was going to be a fun little piece for me to write, where Harry really lets loose and digs into the Headmaster, Remus, and whoever else had the misfortune to cross his path after losing Sirius. Instead, it wrestled away from me until it will now be a story of its own. Wish me luck in taming these plot bunnies, they've been whispering diabolically! ;)**

**Author's Note #2: I may draw from several other AU fanfictions. I will never copy a one-of-a-kind creation of another fanfic author (ironic, since we're all shamelessly playing in JK's sandbox, but that's a topic for another day), without permission. However, those elements which I feel are basically common property (i.e. the shopping spree, Harry becoming a "Lord" and/or emancipated, developing some hitherto unknown power, etc) I will implement in my own way, IF (and it's a big 'if!') I use them. Let me know if you recognize something that is legitimately yours and want it changed or removed. **

**Chapter 1: Aftermath**

"Harry!" Remus barked, his expression shifting uneasily between shock and fear. "Control yourself!"

Harry Potter turned on the werewolf-once, the second closest adult he had ever considered family-and snarled. His voice fell from the raw, hysterical shouting he had not stopped since Dumbledore and the Order apparated into the Headmaster's Office. It had been all anyone could do, after everything they had just went through, to watch and listen as Harry gave a tantrum worthy of the Dark Lord, himself.

But now Harry's tone was cold, low, and should have burned on contact. "_What _makes you think, I am not in perfect control, Lupin?"

He advanced slowly towards the werewolf, his body swaying with a grace that was inhuman and certainly out of character for the at-times shy, always brash, and oddly humble Boy-Who-Lived.

"Who says you have any say in this?" he whispered, his face intimately close to Lupin's. "You lost that-"

Harry raised his voice and turned his upper body, rotating it in the same, eerily fluid movements which were in even sharper contrast to the wild abandon with which he had been attacking the Headmaster's office and belongings before the Order arrived. "All of you—lost any rights you may have had, when you failed me. Again."

"Harr-" Albus began, his voice strained and shoulders sagging, but willing to spend the last of his energy for the evening to reclaim control of the situation, tragic as it was.

"No, Headmaster. Yet again, your words, your regrets and apologies, come too late. Yet again, my life is in ruins and I have lost another person who loved me."

Harry's tone was even and his voice grew softer as he shuffled towards the door. His body stiff with fatigue, Harry turned his back on the Order of the Phoenix.

"Voldemort may be striking the blows, but you, most of all, have been complicit in my families' deaths. I will not—I _can not—_align myself with the same people who are willing to sacrifice me and mine for their misguided hopes..."

The silence was profound after Harry's exit, and in his absence, no one dared move or speak. The Headmaster was the first to shake himself, followed closely by his Potions Master, and Deputy Headmistress.

The Leader of the Light marshaled his thoughts and his will, pushing his immediate reactions down. There were still important matters to address. "We must-"

"Albus." Minerva McGonagall interrupted with a weary voice, "I think we should all sleep on it." She paused and levered herself out of her seat, leaning on the back of the armchair she had collapsed into, until her feet were steady. "The Ministry is aware and will handle things outside of Hogwarts, for now. In the meantime, we have concerns within our halls to look after."

Not waiting for a reply, she turned away and walked out. For once, Snape offered no parting shot and simply followed his colleague's lead. When the last of the faculty had left, the door closed with an audible click behind them. Remus barely raised his eyes, and even then he couldn't meet Dumbledore's. Though exhausted, he reached the door under his own power, unsteady as it was, following the confrontation against Voldemort and his Death Eaters. It was like the First War all over again, except now he was alone. His pack...his family was gone.

Remus paused when Dumbledore called after him, "Remus, where will you go?"

"Hogsmeade. Rosmerta won't mind me taking a bench for the evening."

And so the room was empty except for its master. Dumbledore was left to contemplate his choices, particularly those regarding a powerful young man. His eyes traveled unseeingly around the room, absently calculating how much damage he could repair personally, and how much he would need assistance restoring.

That was work for the morning, however. He counted his blessings that Harry had been entirely physical in letting off his rage until the last outburst. Otherwise, others may have noticed Albus's pallor and slight shiver, as the boy effortlessly walked through a shield which had served since Dumbledore first became Headmaster. No one Harry's age should have been able to breach the wards surrounding his office, but with barely a thought, Harry Potter walked through them unmolested.

Shaking his head, Albus walked into his private quarters and prepared to catch as much sleep as possible before facing the new day. He did not hear Fawkes's final, mournful chirp 'goodbye' or see the Phoenix's spectacular display as it departed from its perch for parts unknown...

* * *

><p>"Harry!" Hermoine called, setting aside the small, first edition spell book she had been reading since breakfast.<p>

"Mate, where've ya been?" Ron asked, joining Hermoine in their bedridden welcome.

Harry gave them a half smile but couldn't maintain it for long. He hugged Hermoine and clapped Ron on his free shoulder, the other and the rest of his torso tightly bandaged as he recovered from the brains, before sitting down between them.

"I had another meeting with Dumbledore. He wants me to reconsider staying at Grimmauld..."

Ron scowled and Hermoine reached out to touch his shoulder.

"Are you alright? All things considered?" she asked softly.

Harry sighed but didn't break into tears or give any other indication that he was hiding an aggrieved meltdown. He placed one hand over Hermoine's and squeezed it before releasing.

"All considered? Yeah. Mostly, it's just...I keep feeling like he's just an owl away, or that he's gonna show up and tell us it was the biggest prank since the Marauders' prime."

His voice was almost painfully sad and there were a few moments of silence before Harry decided a change of subject was in order.

"Any news from your parents? Can you come for a visit over break?" he asked Hermoine.

Hermoine's smile was strained but there all the same. "Yes. Mum wants to see me for herself and have me checked out by a muggle doctor, run a full battery of tests, probably schedule me to see a shrink, too, while she's at it. She's-"

"She's your mum, Hermoine. I wouldn't expect any less." Harry replied, grinning at the juvenile eye roll he could tell Hermoine was trying not to indulge in. "What about the Weasleys, Ron?"

"Sorry, mate, but it doesn't seem likely. Mum's alright, just wants to know you'll be taking care of yourself, but Dad and Bill are still a bit testy about you kicking out the Order."

Another moment of awkward silence descended over the Trio, but this time no one broke it. Finally, Madam Pomfrey came over to check on Ron and change his bandages, during which Harry made his escape. He promised to see them after dinner as usual.

He took a very scenic route back to the Gryffindor Common Room, visiting old friends and landmarks which had stood witness to five of the best and worst years of his life. As he passed Sir Roger's empty frame, Harry thought back to the excitement and adventure of his First Year. He had thought all of his dreams were coming true, when he first heard about Hogwarts; that life was finally getting better and he could experience lasting happiness and friends and perhaps even love. And, honestly, he had. Harry had made friends and enemies, passed tests and trials, and learned the true meaning of family.

No matter what Dumbledore thought, the _Dursleys_ were not Harry's family. His family were the people who'd gone out of their way, risked their lives and even their hopes for a future, to help and protect him. His family were two of the best friends anyone could ask for; a fiery redhead who wouldn't take 'no' for an answer, when she thought she knew best; a Gryffindor who redefined the meaning of courage and surpassed all expectations; and, a virtual stranger-a girl who had seen Harry in his hour of need and reached out, just because she cared and understood parts of him that Harry was hard pressed to name for himself. The Weasleys were a part of his family; Dobby, excitable as he was, was a part of Harry's family.

There were a lot of other people in his life and Harry certainly wasn't going discounting all of his friends and acquaintances out of hand. But he _was_ taking stock and reevaluating how wise it was to follow anyone blindly. It had been proven time and time again that appearances were deceiving and no one could be relied on all of the time. At least, with Harry making his own decisions, the consequences he would pay were his own to accept.

No more sitting on the sidelines; being stifled and smothered, until he was drawn away from his 'guards' and forced on the defensive. If Voldemort wanted war, if he was so desperate to be the greatest wizard of their time, then Harry was going to give him a run for his money. He was going to survive the Dark Lord and his sycophants, and Harry was going to _live._ Finally, he was going to justify all of the sacrifices that had been made on his behalf and earn the faith his family had placed in him.

**AN:** Reviews make me happy. Really, they do. I've been on this site for years and never had the nerve to post my work. Just three reviews later, I was absolutely HOOKED! If you haven't had the experience yet, BE WARNED…they will make you be as happy as a house-elf is to serve, to be a slave to the whimsy of plot bunnies.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Reparation (Part 1)**

**Disclaimer: It ain't mine! If it was...I'd still be writing fanfiction, and I'd use a penname like "TJ Blakemore" and I would taunt you all mercilessly with ideas that my publisher wouldn't approve, all while enjoying the millions upon millions Harry Potter would have made me, the author, and all the companies who jumped on the wizarding-money-train... ((But, obviously, it's not. So I'm not doing all those things))  
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"Kreacher!" Harry bellowed, not bothering to hide any of his feelings towards the treacherous elf.

The house elf popped into existence, not a yard in front of Harry, already hunched over and muttering for all he was worth about the 'scum, he refused to call master'. A twisted smirk bloomed across Harry's face as he stared down at Kreacher. It was too late to save Sirius, too late to do anything meaningful against the house elf and avenge Kreacher's role in his godfather's death. But today began a new leaf, and Harry planned to enjoy every minute of it, that was at Kreacher's expense.

"Kreacher," Harry spat out the words, "You will answer when you are summoned and greet me as befits the Lord of the House of Black. You WILL bow, kneel, and scrape, to within an inch of your life, whenever you enter or leave my presence. You will NOT speak, gesture, moan, whine, groan, whisper, or otherwise express any thought, feeling, or emotion towards, or about me-or _anyone_, for that matter-unless spoken to directly and I have given you permission to reply."

Harry paused, for suspense and to relish the moment. In his own insane way, Kreacher seemed to be taking life from the harsh words and straightened up with every order as if it were a physical binding around his spine.

"For every time you disobey me, twist my words to suit your desire, or perform in any way that is less than satisfactory to my standards for a servant of this House, you will be subjected to cleaning and serving the homes and families of muggleborns for temporary service, until you _beg_ to see someone of even halfway decent blood."

Harry snapped his fingers, waiting for a reaction or response from the elf. When none was forthcoming, Harry advanced menacingly on the aptly named 'creature' and hissed in a deadly voice, "Is. That. Clear?"

Something, either in his tone or perhaps the whisper of power that emphasized his enunciation, must have moved Kreacher. The house elf abruptly threw himself to the ground, prostrating himself before Harry and spoke directly into the musty carpet in as clear a voice as Harry had ever heard from him.

"Yes, My Lord. Kreacher will serve the new Lord Black. All will be as you command it, Master."

Sneering in his best imitation of Malfoy, Harry brushed past the thoroughly cowed house elf and continued towards the stairs, speaking over his shoulder as he moved.

"I'll expect dinner at 8 sharp. There will be no company for at least a week, and in that time, I want this house cleaned. Spotless! Stock the pantry and air the first and second floor guest rooms." He paused and took another step, before delivering another threat, for good measure. "If I find one piece of furniture that is scuffed or broken, or that you have neglected any aspect of your duties, it will be a week with the mudbloods, Kreacher."

Harry turned around, baring a cruel smile that would have been unrecognizable to his loved ones. Kreacher had not moved from his position on the ground and remained completely silent.

"And fix yourself up: I want to see a proper uniform, with the Black crest, before you serve me breakfast. DO NOT disturb me before nine o'clock and if anyone comes calling, I trust you to see to them as befits their station and relationship to your _current _Lord. Is that understood, Kreacher?"

Harry fought back a scowl when he realized who had been feeding him the words and proper attitude to get the best response out of Kreacher. He sounded like a Dursley! Or worse, _Snape!_ Turning around, he walked proudly but quickly up the stairs. He had notified Kreacher he would be arriving and to clear out the master suite—it held no memories for him, unlike it had for Sirius, of hated parents and childhood fears. His nightmares had started in a cupboard, not a veritable mansion.

Now that he was the undisputed Lord of Grimmauld Place, he had a lot of work to do. Somehow, he had to keep up this charade with Kreacher; hire someone (likely, the goblins, if they did that kind of thing for clients) to check, define, and update all of the wards; find a way to travel safely and below the radar between here and Diagon Alley, until he could apparate independently; work out a disguise and a false paper trail for said alias; procure a new wand; and, most importantly, find the books and tutors which would give him the skill to make the most of his unique situation.

Harry strongly doubted that 'the power the Dark Lord knows not' could be found through academic study, but he needed to learn more, regardless. Specific training to maximize his potential and broaden the skills he had at his disposal. There was no way he could face Voldemort and his followers on his own, and in order to cultivate the contacts he needed, Harry was prepared to take his rightful place in the wizarding world.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Reparation (Part 2)**

**Disclaimer: I don't claim any rights to Harry Potter and the associated merchandise. None. I do claim any enjoyment you may derive from my original words or attempts at wit, humor, and drama/suspense.**

Of course, Harry did not actually sleep in until nine in the morning. No, he woke up promptly at seven like a good little slave/schoolboy cum savior. And then he realized that it was summer; he was, finally free of his blasted relatives; and, he had a house elf to take care of the menial labor. So, grinning like the cat who caught the canary, Harry turned right back over, snuggled deeper into his covers, and dropped off to sleep.

At nine of the clock, sharp, Kreacher knocked politely three times on his master's door. When he received no answer, he set the breakfast tray down in the lounge connected to the master bedroom. It would stay warm until his master woke up and decided he was ready to eat.

When Kreacher returned at half past, the food hadn't been touched. He almost ignored it and went back to his duties—finally! Work and duties befitting the most loyal house elf of his mistress's home—but age old instincts wouldn't allow him. He shuffled up to the bedroom door again and knocked a bit more insistently.

This time he heard mumbling and groaning from the other side of the door. He waited for a minute but when nothing else was heard, Kreacher dared twist the doorknob and lean in to whisper to his master.

"Lord Black, sir? When you are ready, breakfast has been served." Silence met his announcement but it was enough to satisfy Kreacher's gut instinct to serve to the best of his ability.

After all, interrupting his master's sleep could land him in trouble just as much as not alerting his master to the time. He fidgeted, rubbing his hands together for awhile and finally decided to give up. He would keep checking in, just to be safe.

Some two hours after his first wake-up call, Harry pulled himself out of bed and stumbled through the first door he saw. He walked in, brushing past two rows of hangers, before he realized that this was not a bathroom, but a wardrobe. Stunned, he actually stood on the spot and turned around on the spot in slow motion. Only nature's insistent demand pulled him out of there. He tried two more doors before finding the right one and relieving himself.

When he finished taking care of business, he checked the two other doors leading from the bathroom, for the heck of it. One connected to the same walk-in closet, and the other revealed a smaller pantry/linen closet with toiletries, towels, and robes. Everything was preserved but Harry could sense the spells were stale and probably worn out in some cases. Adding 'have Kreacher check and update preservations' to his to-do list for the house elf, Harry backtracked to the bedroom and found the doors he'd come through yesterday evening.

The door from the hallway didn't lead directly into the bedroom, but to a sitting room. It struck him as more like a common room than a waiting area, but that was probably because it was on the top floor of a home rather than the ground floor. His aunt would have probably called it a parlor or a lounge or some such. Architectural semantics were interesting for the moment, but flew out the window when he lifted the lid of the tray waiting for him on the raise table to the side. It revealed an interesting spell—not only was the space underneath magically expanded to be bigger than it appeared, but it grew outward, like an inflatable chair or tent, when Harry removed the domed cover entirely.

He sat down in his boxers and dug in, enjoying the hearty meal to the last bite. It wasn't until he fell back, stomach beyond full and comfortably sated, that it occurred to Harry that he had terrorized the house elf, who was most likely responsible for his meal. The same house elf, in fact, who had betrayed his previous master, run to the Malfoys with damning information, and repeatedly expressed his abject hatred of Harry, his friends, and anything that went against traditional pureblood propaganda. Unfortunately, having stuffed himself beyond what was strictly necessary—or, really even healthy—Harry couldn't muster up the energy to do more than worry in his mind.

He wasn't too sated to jump two feet into the air when Kreacher popped in, however. Instinct overrode his conscious reaction and he had his wand aimed at the house elf before he fully realized, and was ducking behind the chair he'd been sitting in just a second ago. Servant and master looked at each other with mirrored expressions of confusion until Harry's mind caught up and he lowered his wand, jerking up to stand straight.

He tried his best to muster a sneer worthy of a Malfoy and walk imperially back into the bedroom, but three things interfered with the image he was trying to projection. First, he was blushing from about halfway down his belly up to the tops of his ears. Second, he stumbled when he tried to turn on the spot and bumped into a table laden with fragile curios and a decorative vase. And third, he could have sworn he heard Kreacher snort as he closed the door and had to open it again because he'd closed it on the fabric of his drawers.

Harry regretted being seen at less than his best by Kreacher, but didn't worry too much about it when he found the bathroom again. As he stepped into the shower, he remembered that he had more tasks for the elf to take care of. _'That should bring us back to the precedent I tried to establish last night, at least.' _At least, he hoped it would. Loath as he was to admit it, Kreacher was a great advantage for his plans. Short of 'hiring' Dobby, there was no other, single, person who could serve Harry in as many capacities.

Shaking his head, Harry experimented with a few of the taps to find one that seemed like shampoo and started on his hair...

When Harry emerged from the master suite, it was to a much brighter, if not lighter, Number Twelve. He was amazed at the number of windows that were actually in the home. He gave the top floor only a cursory examination, just peeking into each of the rooms to see if Kreacher had gone through every one, or skived off and just did the ones closest to Harry's room. He was satisfied with what he saw and moved down a floor.

Interestingly enough, many of the portraits on the walls were not magical. Harry would have expected a family as staunchly pureblooded as the Blacks to surround themselves with enchantments to the point of redundancy. But then he remembered how omniscient the Headmaster always seemed to be about things _after the fact_ at Hogwarts. It all made sense when he realized how secretive a family that was clearly more Dark than Light, would be.

The second floor was a bit more interesting after Harry found some copies of rooms that could be found on the first floor, but these were more intimate. Private libraries and studies, and even a room he thought might be for the sole reason of playing chess or cards or other multiplayer, table top entertainments. By the time Harry reached the first floor, he noticed a distinct difference in the décor from the upper floors.

It hadn't been apparent as thoroughly dreary as the place had been when he had last visited. But someone (or, several someones, if Harry's guess that generations added their own touches as the whim struck them) had gone through the trouble to make it more apparent that the Blacks were rich, powerful, and worth being weary of, for the 'public' floors. He could have sworn there were more rooms as well, since he had thought he knew the layout pretty well from a summer spent cleaning and detoxifying the place. With the previous gloom and filth dispelled, Harry found new corners to turn which led down halls that he couldn't remember having seen, even in passing.

Kreacher would know, so Harry would ask him later on for a floor plan. Harry finished his explorations on the ground floor and by then, he was feeling a bit peckish. The kitchen was, again, nothing as warm as Mrs. Weasley, or even Petunia's, but it was definitely brighter than before and looked clean enough to eat off of the floors. No sooner than Harry crossed the threshold, Kreacher bowed, again almost to the floor, facing his master.

When he didn't say or do anything else, Harry raised an eyebrow but tried not to show any surprise. This was what he had asked for, after all.

"I could do with a snack, Kreacher. Something light, wouldn't want to spoil my appetite for the wonderful lunch you're cooking up." It was a stew, Harry thought, but he couldn't see it from the doorway—only smell the broth and spy some of the ingredients that were out. "And some butterbeer, if we have some. If we don't, I'll want you to get some. Always have it stocked. I'll be doing some reading."

He turned around after another tense silence and walked through the door, Kreacher still frozen like a statue when he left. Harry shook his head to get off of that train of thought when he opened the door and walked into...something. It definitely wasn't the same room anymore. Not only was it bigger, the walls were higher, and it now contained three portraits that were nearly life-sized. Like Mrs. Black's, except they were all men.

"Finally! You took your time about it, didn't you?" said the first one, on the far right, with a clearly frustrated, and impatient, edge to his voice.

"We have been waiting-" said the one on the far left, his tone more slow and ponderous, although he seemed to be the youngest of the three paintings.

"Let's hope you're not like the last-" the middle portrait, and Harry wanted to curse him on sight, because of who he thought it was, until he realized the portrait only resembled Nigellus and it wasn't actually the former Hogwarts Headmaster.

Harry had his wand out and came to a stop, confused and trying to decide if they were a threat or not. "STOP!"

Their expressions would have been funny if he had been in the mood. He wasn't.

"Who are you? How did you get here? WHAT is going on!" he demanded, moving deeper into the room. Quite conspicuously, everything was put away and ordered neatly except for two books that lay on one of the two long tables. Harry walked over to it, his wand still out, and peered down at them. He recognized the coat of arms easily enough.

Three dark birds, probably ravens although he wasn't positive—for all he knew about heraldry, they could have been blackbirds—arrayed in the shape of a downward pointing chevron; below a hand holding a sword, wearing a gauntlet that he assumed was part of a complete set of armor; and underneath it all, the motto, "Toujours purs." For the first time, though, Harry realized that the motto wasn't Gaelic or Old English, but French. Were the Blacks, originally French?

He heard grumbling and looked up and to his right. Grumpy wasn't looking happy at all, but he hadn't actually said anything. Harry turned his eyes curiously to the middle and left portraits, and confirmed that they were also torn between looking angry and constipated. Confused, he decided to test a theory and looked right at the middle portrait.

"Answer me."

The portrait to his right threw up his hands but still didn't voice any objection, making Harry think he had the right of it. They were bound to serve him (or at least the House), like house elves.

"We, young man, are prior Lords of this House. We have always been 'here', as it were. However, your predecessor ordered that much of our legacy be hidden, after he failed to destroy it, and us. As for the 'what,' it is our responsibility to ensure you are educated as to the duties and expectations you now bear as Lord Black."

Harry blinked dumbly at the portrait for a minute and was only shocked out of it, when the door opened. Kreacher walked in dutifully and quietly, placed his snack in easy reach, and walked out.

"Oh." he said, eloquently. "Right then. You all should know that I was raised by muggles-sorry if that offends your 'sensibilities'-and don't know the first thing about being a Lord, of anything. Supposedly, I will be going through the same thing when I come of age and become Lord Potter, though, so I guess this will help."

Almost as an afterthought, he released them to speak—one at a time—as he sat down, and pulled the book with the coat of arms to him. The other one was still blank, although to Harry's inexperienced eye it looked like a long, leatherbound ledger.

"Are you a half-blood, then?" the Nigellus look-a-like asked him.

"Yes. My mother, Lily Evans, was a muggleborn and my father was James Potter. If I'm not mistaken, our families are at least distantly related?"

"Ah, yes. Dorea's man... She had spirit. Wasn't too sure about Charlus, but she whipped him right into shape."

Harry mostly ignored them as the three portraits sidetracked into a discussion of long and far reaching alliances, feuds, and some of the regrettable disappointments of their family tree. He had opened the book and started skimming, which didn't work when so much of it proved to actually be interesting.

It was a lot to take in but he drove right through it, pausing occasionally to ask them to clarify or provide more details about such and such discovery, marriage, or proclamation made by a previous Lord Black. He ate lunch in the room, and it was approaching dinnertime when Harry reached the blank pages following Sirius's one and only entry in the entire book. It stated his claiming of the House of Black and described all the things that would be hidden, bound, or ignored until his dying day—or he passed on the title of Head of House.

Harry took a break and sighed, his eyes wandering as he looked up from the page dedicated to him and his imminent decisions regarding the House of Black. It wasn't something to rush into, while his thoughts were still full of Black history and anecdotes. Instead, he leaned back in his chair so that he could see all of them, at least out of the corner of his eyes.

"So, where are the others? The book mentions at least three more of you."

"They will appear as needed. We represent a priceless resource, child; one that should not be abused."

"Right. Okay, how about this? I want to accept; if for nothing else, because I need some credibility in the world that doesn't hinge on public opinion or Albus Dumbledore's endorsement. He's already conquered his Dark Lord, he can take a few hits. I, on the other hand, can't afford to have people slandering me and spreading libel because no one will defend me—or, rather, no one _in the right places_ will defend me. How do you three feel about a half-blood taking over? And what are you willing to do to help me?"

"Admirable," came the look-a-like and center portrait.

The slow talking young man with the old voice, commented dryly from Harry's left, "You'll need more than good opinion to face a Dark Lord."

Grumpy just snorted and caught Harry's eyes. They stared at each other silently for awhile until the portrait looked away and Harry returned to face forward. "You'll do."

"Have your dinner first," the look-a-like suggested. "And then you may finalize the process. It won't change, but your title will, and your magical signature may or may not reflect that, depending on how compatible you are with the family magic."

Harry nodded and stood up. He stretched loudly and unabashedly before them and walked out to the kitchen. The stew had hit the spot earlier and if dinner followed the trend Kreacher had established with breakfast, his midday snack, and lunch, Harry had much to look forward to.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Progress**

**Disclaimer: I claim no rights to Harry Potter. Any money you might be inspired to spend because of this fanfiction, please spend on real merchandise. I'm just playing with an author's creations…**

From the moment Harry saw the box, he knew he shouldn't open it.

It was dark, heavy just to look at-it wasn't made of felt or velvet or satin, or whatever material most ring boxes were made of-and Harry felt a chill go down his spine that had nothing to do with the comfortably toasty environment that was now the interior of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. His skin didn't crawl as it might have in the presence of the Dark magic, but it evoked a strong response nonetheless.

"Eh. HEM!"

Harry jumped about half a foot in the air and landed on his feet, grappling for a wand that was halfway across the room. His eyes darted between the portraits, trying to identify which one was actually responsible. Who knew clearing one's throat could even be done so loudly, and impatiently, at that? He couldn't tell, of course, so he narrowed his eyes at all three anyway.

No sooner had he turned his back on them again and looked down at the empty table top, he heard one of them hiss at him, "It won't bite!"

And another, "Silly, foolish, dimwitted boy," was muttered just low enough that it could be politely defended as a mistake to have actually been heard.

He had known this was coming. After taking a day to go over almost every prior Lord Black's edicts and taking personal inventory of what was available and possible at just the one property, he had outlined in mostly open-ended terms what would and would not be allowed while he was Head of Family. It came with a few rights, many privileges he had never even heard of, and a few responsibilities which were mostly invalidated once Harry pointed out he was disowning the remaining blood members and had yet to meet Andromeda Tonks to discuss if she would even want to be a Black again. He was doubly unsure because of Nymphadora's allegiance to the Order and her personal relationships with the older generation, who were almost entirely in Dumbledore's pocket.

But none of that could be addressed until he completed the final step of the process. Which brought him full circle, to where he found himself trying to stare down a black box. No pun intended, of course.

Finally, Harry screwed up his courage and grabbed the thing off of the table. It didn't burn, or whistle, or zap him; it didn't do anything. His knuckles were white with a death grip on the box, which he loosened when he was sure it wasn't snarling or waiting for an opportunity to try and bite him.

The only thing he knew so far was that the ring would help cement his position as the Lord Black. It wasn't strictly necessary, but without this, Harry opened himself up to being contested for the right to bear the title by any surviving descendant. Which he had no doubt would happen, probably Draco with his mother as proxy if they got even half a chance. So Harry was a bit cautious as he raised his other hand, drew it back, and forced himself to fling the top open.

_'Like a ripping off a bandage,'_ he prayed.

The ring was…not what he expected. He honestly thought to see more of the borderline gaudiness he now associated with the lower two floors of Grimmauld Place. Instead, the ring was understated. It was by no means simple and no one could mistake it for what it was—a very valuable and professionally crafted jewel.

The gem was not black, but some kind of silver-gray. It appeared almost cloudy to Harry's untrained eye, and it had the imprint of the crest on it but it was sort of stamped on the gem and not colored in so that he saw the details by tilting the box, this way and that way. The band was platinum or silver—more grayish looking metal—and one, solid circle all around, tapering just slightly where the rounded edges supported the gem but otherwise an equal thickness. Harry didn't see it until he extracted the ring from the box, but the motto was inscribed on the inside of the band.

Harry took a deep breath before setting down the box. Acting on gut instinct, he slipped the ring onto the middle finger of his non-dominant (left) hand. It slid on smoothly and Harry felt a jerk, almost like a very, very weak portkey in the region of his wrist, as it sized itself and glowed. The glowing light came from the underside and Harry turned his hand over to see that his name had appeared on the outside of the band, in the same script as the motto inscribed on the inside.

'_Well. That was anticlimactic.'_ Harry thought wryly. He shook his head at the ridiculous scenarios that had been playing out in his head.

"Summon your wand," a voice suggested and before he could really think about it, Harry reached out and turned towards the table behind him.

His eleven-inch holly and phoenix feather wand flew to his hand smoothly, without a word and barely a flex of his will, leaving Harry speechless. He gripped the familiar handle of his wand and felt a warm feeling, much like the first time he held the wand and it connected to his core, before gray, blue, and black sparks shot out of it.

"As I expected, Harry, you are now Lord Black." Andros, the former Headmaster's look-a-like and predecessor by several generations, spoke in his usual crisp, no-fuss tone.

'_Huh.'_ was Harry's mystified thought before the floor rushed up to meet him and he passed out.

Arcturus, formerly known as Grumpy, bellowed as soon as Harry collapsed before them. "I told you! He can't handle it! The boy is not fit-too impetuous by half, his reasoning reeks of the muggle trash he is descended from, and-"

"It is out of our hands, now, Arcturus. Either accept it and serve him, or allow one of the ladies to replace you." Andros countered, his voice carrying more than a hint of reproach.

Harry heard a stifled gasp mixed in with the beginnings of a challenge spoken in a language he couldn't understand. He did understand that he was laid out on the ground, where he had…fainted, for lack of a better word. He coughed and cleared his throat as he pushed himself up to his knees, and suddenly jumping to his feet.

"Wha—What was that?" he cried, still feeling jumped up as if he had stuck his finger in a light socket, or been struck by lightning, and was running on pure electricity.

"What you are experiencing is your magic assimilating that of our noble and ancient blood. I believed it was covered in the grimoire…" Lycoris trailed off as all three portraits looked on, curiously.

Harry stumbled along, leaning heavily on the backs of the chairs, as he crossed the room and headed towards the door.

"Lord Black—" Andros was cut off by a shakily thrown up arm.

"Later," Harry said and with it, the lights went out and the three portraits were suddenly shut out behind heavy, enchanted curtains as the new Lord Black fumbled with the knob and stumbled out into the hallway.

How was he going to make it up so many steps? Why hadn't he shrunken the house down to its minimal two stories when he had the chance?

Just as Harry felt a wave of despair beginning to overwhelm him and he got down on his hands and knees to crawl up the stairs, he heard a distinctive pop. For once Kreacher bowed and then rose of his own accord. He squeaked and tried to mime something to Harry, who barely understand that the house elf wasn't a particularly animated piece of furniture before shaking his head and forcing himself to focus, squinting his eyes to see through glasses which suddenly weren't aligned.

"Speak, Kreacher." Harry croaked, leaning heavily against the wall to meet the house elf almost at eye level.

"My Lord, if you would allow me, it is customary for the Lord to rest once he has been accepted by the family magic. Time to recover-and, and, adjust!"

Harry nodded blearily and leaned to his left without moving his arms, effectively tipping over without the support, from the empty air, which for some reason his mind had honestly expected to hold him up.

Kreacher reached him just before he met the carpet again, and with a twist that felt more like spinning on a top than the sensations of apparation or portkeying, Harry found himself kneeling next to the bed-_his_ bed. He climbed on, looking for all the world like a seventeen year old puppy as he climbed and kicked at the heavy sheets and decorative pillows, and sprawled across the duvet, defeated.

He felt too keyed up to sleep and too exhausted to keep his eyes open. His body chose to compromise by letting his eyelids droop shut and his limbs began to shiver, then started spasming for all they were worth. Kreacher was unfazed by all of this and continued undressing his master and turning down the bed—an admirable feat, considering Harry was still in it and suffering from continuous seizures.

This time it was Kreacher's exit that extinguished the lights, and as the house elf softly closed the door behind him, he couldn't help grinning. It was unbelievable and went against everything his mistress would have chosen, but Kreacher had a Master now. _His_ Master!

"Did you just say, twelve THOUSAND pounds? Really!" Harry asked in disbelief

The goblin looked up from his clipboard and pinned Harry with a look of such rank disgust that he almost flinched back. Almost.

"Yes. If you'd prefer, we can disburse the payments over an allotted timeline and arrange payment plans for the rest of your business with us."

Harry raised an eyebrow and shrugged, turning around as he replied, "Oh, that won't be necessary. After all, I've got that sum, a few times over, now, and I'm sure you know what's in my vaults even better than I do…yet."

He walked away casually, humming some tune he didn't even recognize but which had been going through his mind ever since he woke up from the seventeen hours of sleep it took to recover from the little surprise all three of his 'mentors' had conveniently forgotten to warn him about. In a stroke of fortune, Gringott's had come to him instead of Harry having to travel to the bank.

It was standard practice for families who thought themselves too uppity to be running after goblins and asking them to handle services. So with a new Lord, they'd come prepared to handle all of the transactions which were initiated once Harry was formally Harry James Potter, Lord of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black. He'd gone over the general details with the two goblins once he'd made sure everything in their copy of the Black books matched what he had written in his decree.

Now, he could just sit back, kick up his legs, order a drink and snacks from Kreacher, and laze the day away...

Right. There was still the matter of a brat who'd decided the rest of the world had to pay because he hadn't been hugged by mummy enough; affairs to take over from whoever had been managing the Potter estate since his father passed; Hermoine's trip to schedule; contact to be made with the outside world-outside of Dumbledore, Hogwarts, and the Order, at least.

Harry found himself drifting towards the sun room-which was rapidly becoming his favorite room in the lower floors of the house-before forcing himself to turn back. All of the thinking and reading and discussing with Lyco, Arc, and Andy were getting to him. It was too much like homework-without any of the benefits.

_'Well, maybe there are __some__ benefits,'_ Harry thought as he entered the room and with a snap, opened the windows to let in some natural light, released the portraits from behind their curtains, and a tray appeared on his desk-a new acquisition from one of the parlors in one of the guest suites-just as he took a seat.

"Hmm, Well, what are we starting with today?"

"You asked to go over the last war, against Grindelwald. I've had the proper materials brought in. We shall begin with the first whispers of a Dark Lord, in the year..." Lycoris could make Quidditch sound dreadfully boring. Harry had a bet against himself whether he or Binns could put the largest auditorium of people to sleep first. But he was also implacable and, unlike Binns, did not hesitate to call back someone's attention that wandered and quiz them spontaneously on it.

So Harry actually took out a quill and some parchment and divided up the sheet in one of the new note-taking methods he was trying out. _'Entirely __too__ much like homework!'_

**A/N:** I can't promise 'action', per se, but buckle up anyway because we're gonna be having some explosions, maybe one heart-to-heart, a few pointed reminders for those amnesiac old fools who keep trying to 'steer' Harry to their way of doing things.

This will be the last chapter in awhile that focuses on so much minuetai and interesting (for me) but potentially boring (for readers) 'filler.' I like writing like this, but I really do want you guys to enjoy the story on its own (THANK YOU! THANK YOU! and THANK YOU! for the reviews and favorites and story alerts!). I know the introduction and summary promised more...grr *makes a growling noise*, and trust me I'm not forgetting it. But I am also trying to give the story more substance and develop the originally very simple plot into a story that lasts more than five chapters (I was originally gunning for that-now, I'm considering horcruxes and actually taking the fight to Voldie and all the other fun stuff besides just bashing! which can be loads of fun on its own).

Anyway, I hope you're all doing alright. Don't despair if this chapter wasn't to your taste-I tried something different, since we had no internet for several days (but it felt like WEEKS!). Let me know if it's a bust, why you don't like it, and/or how you think it might be improved (or just more enjoyable). I'll sacrifice quality for personal gratification and amusement in my reading, but I'll try not to do the same in my writing.

Whoo! Longest author note, EVER, right? No scat-go on with you!


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